


'Cause I'm a Little Unsteady

by emmylizzie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chubby Dean, Gen, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmylizzie/pseuds/emmylizzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam leaves for Stanford and Dean fills the missing pieces with food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Cause I'm a Little Unsteady

 

He watches Sam leave with an ache in his chest the size of California.

The bus sputters away in a cloud of fumes and Dean salutes its exit onto the highway and tries not to fall apart.

None of this should come as a surprise - Sam leaving and it hurting - except it does. He feels like Old Yeller or that golden retriever from _Homeward Bound._ Left behind like some poor bastard, abandoned on the side of the road watching his best friend drive off. And there goes his eyes again. Welling up like the fucking Hoover Dam.

He’s hoping Sam had enough sense to bring along his knife. That he remembered at least to pack a flask of holy water. The ripped pages of Latin. A tiny saltshaker. Anything.

He looks down to find one missed text. He flips open the screen and squints against the sun.

 _I brought the Glock._ It reads. _So you can stop worrying._

Dean smiles to himself. Feels like a proud mother.

 _Wasn’t worrying,_ he chides back.

 

 

Three weeks after Sam’s in the wussy state, that giant aching hole in Dean’s chest has turned into a friggen crater.

They drive 380 miles to Appalachian Ohio, nearing the tip of the Kentucky border. The nest of Harpies he and Dad had been tracking since Missouri turns out to be nothing more than a misplaced group of feral ponies.

_Ponies._

His boots are caked in mud and dried vegetation. His skin covered in a week’s worth of grime and sweat. All for a group of harmless horses.

He makes another joke about it at breakfast, over his large stack of pancakes.

“Maybe we should investigate the local forest preserve,” he throws out around a bite. A big dollop of syrup lands on his knee. He removes it with a swipe; sucks the sugar off his finger. “You know, man-eating deer. Cannibal porcupines. Crazy feral squirrels.”

John puts down his paper and glares.

Dean smiles. A lazy upturn of the lips. “Just sayin.” He shrugs.

“It could have been Harpies,” John argues.

“Could’ve been Harpies,” Dean agrees. He shoves in another forkful.

The syrup is warm. Just the way he likes it. Sticky sweet and hot enough to scorch his tongue. Real maple. He pours the rest of the container over his pancake stack and saturates the rest of his sausage, his bacon, and what’s left of the hashed browns.

Dad’s gaze is hawk-like. Disapproving, most likely but Dean pretends not to notice. Doesn’t dwell either on the empty feeling in his gut, how it’s slightly less unbearable with the giant breakfast crammed inside.

He quickly plows through the rest of the spread until there’s nothing left, until he’s lazily swiping the syrup-coated plate with the tongs of his fork.

“You done?” John asks, crumpled bills already thrown on the table.

Dean shrugs his reply. Follows Dad to the door, step-for-step, always in line.

Goddamn ponies, he laughs to himself.

Sam woulda found it funny. He makes sure to tell him next time they talk.

 

 

 

Halloween rolls around and brings with it an icy rain so cold it numbs Dean to the core. Little kids run through the streets in their ridiculous costumes, everyone clamoring for buckets of candy.

It’s been three months since he’d seen Sam, since he claimed The Golden State as his new home. It’s not that he’s bitter are anything but if he has to hear about Sam’s new roommate one more time he might stab himself in the ear. _My best friend,_ Sam had prefaced one night when talking about him and Dean drowned his jealousy in a tub of fried chicken.

They’re coping differently. All three of them. Dad doesn’t mention Sam anymore, save for the occasional want of an update. Is he still laying down the salt lines? Still keeping the jugs of holy water filled? ‘Yes, sir’ is the usual reply, even when Dean hasn't got no clue. Mostly Dad pretends Stanford is some fictional place. Like it’s fucking Hogwarts or something. It’s all a big dysfunctional shit fest, but hey, welcome to his life.

He's sitting outside on the stoop at the back entrance of the house they’re borrowing with enough candy to feed the whole neighborhood. His initial plan being to hand out candy and pose as a well-mannered citizen. But nostalgia came and kicked him in the ass and instead of handing out candy he’s shoveling it down at record speed. Which is why he’s now sugar-crashing and sick as fuck, the pads of his fingers covered in residual chocolate.

The dozen or so Peanut Butter cups he scarfed down have left a chalky feeling on the roof of his mouth. He tosses back a third bottle of PBR to chase away the flavor, then tears open a jumbo pack of bite-sized sweets. He starts on the Kit-Kats first. Digs into the Skittles next. He feels like he’s straining the laws of physics - _how far can a 22-year-old-male stretch his stomach before it pops?_ But he keeps eating. Can’t bring himself to care beyond the fullness.

It’s a recipe for disaster – his passiveness when it comes to pain, his pain when it comes to Sam. Three months and he’s gone up a size. Nothing to write home about. His willowy teenaged-like limbs needing some extra padding anyhow. 15 pounds not accounting for much when you’re nearing over six feet and made of stretched tendons and bones. Sure, he’d rather it was muscle, not fat, but the added weight makes him feel better. Stronger. Less boy-like. He looks a little thicker, sure. More full, less lithe. He figures it’ll all burn off eventually. Turn to muscle or simply disappear. Easy peasy. Nothing to freak out about.

He’s nearing the bottom of the bag when his phone rings to life. 6 o’clock. Right on time. He brushes off the mess of wrappers scattered about his outstretched legs and answers Sam’s call with a, “Hey, loser.”

There’s a snort on the end of the line. “Hey, jerk.”

“Happy Halloween or whatever.” Dean unwraps another Starburst and sucks eagerly around the cherry flavor. Fuck, he loves Starbursts. He pushes it around his tongue, swallows down the pooling saliva.

“Oh god,” comes Sam’s voice. “Please tell me you’re sucking on candy and not something else.”

Dean lets out a low chuckle. There’s the thumping beat of a bass in the background. The sounds of too many people crammed into one room. “Why does it sound like you’re at a goddamn discotheque?”

“It’s a frat party. Not 1975.”

“Smartass. What are they teaching you there? How to be a Bitch 101?”

“Pre-law,” Sam says like he’s told him this already. Which, now that he thinks about it he probably has.

There’s a muffled, high-pitched sound of girls giggling. Then Sam’s voice swoops back in, more somber than before. “So I was thinking. Do you think you’ll be able to visit soon?”

Dean suppresses a sigh. Sam acts like this is all so easy. Like he didn’t up and ditch them and the game of tug-of-war isn’t still going on. He has to shove in another Starburst to keep his stomach from churning. “I don’t know, man.” He focuses on the click of his jaw and the achingly sour taste of lemon. “Maybe."

Sam knows it’s as good as ‘no’. “What about Christmas?”

Dean scrubs a hand along his jawline, fingers catching in the stubble. “What if you came here?”

“Where’s _here_?” His voice reaching that uppity level Dean hates so much.

“Wherever we’re at.” Duh.

A long pause. So long he’s thinking the call got dropped. But then Sam’s back with a, “Maybe.” Which is Sam-speak for ‘definitely not.’

So they’re at a standstill. All because three grown men can’t figure out how to coexist in the same breathing space. And Dean has been waiting all week to hear his brother’s voice, but now that they’re talking it’s suddenly too much. The anger. The resentment. Every unwanted feeling bubbling to the surface with such fierceness he can’t tell if the spasms in his stomach are from the pain or the sugar.

“I gotta go,” he says, his voice abrupt. Rough like gravel.

“Dean."

“Be safe. Throw back a beer for me, okay?” He doesn’t wait for the reply. Clicks the phone shut and stuffs it inside his pocket.

It’s in this state of irritation he finds himself at the drive-thru of a Taco joint ordering four burritos and a couple double-stuffed enchiladas with extra sour cream. He eats so fast he ends up puking most of it up behind the dumpsters.

Nobody said he was well equipped to handle his own emotions, but food was as good as therapy. So fuck it, he was going to eat it all.

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t realize he’s missed Thanksgiving until he’s at the Army Surplus store picking up a first aid kit.

People are yammering about it being the 1st of December, _can you believe it!_ , and Dean looks at the calendar on the wall and realizes that well, shit. They’re right. He’s missed Thanksgiving. The greatest holiday of the year and it flew under his nose like any other Thursday.

He's stuck in some joint near Waco while Dad’s off in Washington, taking care of ‘urgent’ matters. ‘Urgent’ meaning anything, really. His motel room is trashed. Greasy, discarded containers strewn around the floor. Half-eaten mozzarella sticks and demolished boxes of Pop Tarts. A hunger worse than hunger. Less hunger, more need. Three guesses as to why he’s scarfing down an extra large pizza by himself? Bingo. Because being Sammy-less is even more torturous when you’re Dad-less too.

He reaches for another slice. Stuffs the dripping cheese into his mouth and goes to town on the crust. Chew, swallow, chew, swallow. Stuffing it down instead of talking it out. But when he’s halfway through the final slice of pepperoni he stops.

Squeezes his eyes and arches back against the headboard because jesusfuckingchrist it feels like there’s an alien inside of him. He digs the heel of his hand deep into the swell of his gut. Presses down hard until the worst of the spasm is over, massaging the too-tight skin until he can suck in more than a shallow breath of air. With the worst of it over he shimmies down to his back, until he’s flat against the mattress, sweat slick across his brow. His stomach rounds up from his torso like he’s harboring a basketball underneath. Hardly a month out from the last time he weighed himself and he knows ’15 pounds’ is no longer the current damage. But he can’t bring himself to stop.

Can, maybe, but doesn’t want to.

He smoothes his hands down his chest, then to his sides. Everything padded over just enough that it’s there. The slight curve of his stomach, the starter-rolls at his waist threatening the integrity of his jeans – jeans he bought not even a month ago. And maybe it’s because he’s not far out from his birthday, but he feels broader, even. Maybe getting a year older did that to a guy. Or maybe he’s putting on weight in all the right places. His body getting wider in a way he finds acceptable.

It’s not that he wants to get fat. But he doesn’t not want to either. Really, he doesn’t know what he wants, apart from, you know, his brother. Back home. Safe. Not being a selfish douchebag for once in his life.

 _You can’t always get what you want_ , infiltrates his mind, along with the obnoxious – and way too catchy – melody.

 _Shut up, Mick Jagger,_ Dean mumbles to no one and promptly passes out, mouth slack against his pillow.

 

 

 

Before he blinks it’s the day before the day before Christmas. Christmas Eve’s Eve. Not really a holiday, but for them it is, because they’re thirty minutes outside of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, stopping in town for the night on the way to a hunt. Ready to celebrate makeshift-Christmas with Uncle Bobby.

Dean gets a leap in his chest when he glances out the fogged-up window of the Impala. He knows every turn, every exit on the path to Bobby’s house and the small flame of excitement flickering in the depths of his soul becomes ablaze when he sees the turnoff to the road that leads to the old man’s front door.

Of course, his brief moment of happiness is promptly distinguished when he thinks about the missing gap in their brigade – a gap that’s Yeti-sized and skipping about somewhere in kale-land.

But it doesn’t stop him from grinning full-watt when Uncle Bobby pulls him in for a hug and cuffs him up the side of the head.

“Jeez, kid,” he remarks at Dean’s height. Turns to John. “Your boys grow any taller they’re gonna be towerin’ over you.”

“You should see Sammy.” Dean smirks, pride evident in his tone. “Pretty soon he’s going to be towering over everyone.”

“What’s he feedin’ you two, huh?”

“Plenty, by the looks of it,” John remarks. He takes off his jacket. Dusts a shower of melted snow to the floorboards. He catches Dean’s eye.

Dean’s neck flushes scarlet.

They haven’t talked about it. The oversized elephant in the room. He’s gone up another size, making that two sizes since August. A little too much pudge around his middle to be seen as anything other than slightly overweight.

Bobby doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if he has he doesn’t comment, just thrusts a beer in Dean’s outstretched hand and claps him again on the shoulder.

Dinner is a godsend; a genuine home cooked meal. Dean takes his lion’s share of the chili. He eats the overcooked beans and beef with gusto, slashers each chunk of cornbread in thick globs of honey.

Dad shoots him a look every time he takes a bite. His dark eyes narrowed, face pinched in a scowl. Most people would cower at that look, claim submission and run for the door. But Dean doesn’t give a shit. He knows that look. Knows how far he can push that look. So he keeps on eating. Devours what’s left in his bowl and makes a point to sop up the last bite with his honey-covered slab of bread.

He doesn’t know why he’s pushing the boundaries like this, but damn it feels good. Maybe Sammy was on to something because it really is satisfying to see the vein in Dad’s head pulse. The way he’s clenching his jaw hard enough to pop something, fighting with earnest to keep the reprimands inside.

Dean reaches for another piece of cornbread. Flashes his best smile when Bobby nudges the jar of honey closer. “This is really good,” he says around a full bite.

Bobby’s mouth twitches up at the corners like he knows damn well what Dean’s doing. “There’s more up on the stove, son.” He tilts his head towards the oven.

“Dean,” John cuts in.

But because Dean apparently has a death wish, he ignores the commanding tone of his father’s voice and saunters over to the stove, no fucks to be had, and ladles up a second helping, this bowl even bigger than the first.

He knows he’s asking for it. Is practically begging for it. But as with everything lately he either cares too much or not at all and right now he couldn’t care less. Right now it’s all about food. All that glorious food, all that glorious butter. The way his belly strains against the fabric of his shirt, how the curve of his stomach is still pliable despite the hard ache of the bloat. How the hollow pit of that crater-like hole gets smaller and smaller with each added bite.

Dad’s gonna whip his hide the minute they’re on the road. But for now he doesn’t care. He’s going to stuff himself silly because hey, it’s fake-Christmas and he deserves to eat as much as he damn well pleases. Least, that’s what he tells himself when it’s an hour later and he’s back in the kitchen, whisking together a vat of hot chocolate. Cream, sugar, vanilla and cocoa powder, the way he used to make it for Sammy, years ago when they were holed up for a week or two, nothing to occupy them but the snow.

He doesn’t notice Bobby’s joined him in the kitchen until he turns around in search of mugs.

“Top shelf on the left,” Bobby instructs from the table. He’s looking through the pages of a leather bound book. Only glances up when Dean takes the seat opposite him. “So. This new appetite of yours. Got anything to do with Sam bein’ gone?”

Jesus. Talk about no pussy footing around.

Dean takes a sip from his mug. He lets the heat and the bitter taste of chocolate coat his tongue before answering. “Maybe.” He ducks his head. Pretends like he’s cooling off the liquid.

Bobby eyes him from above his book. “You ever think of tellin’ your daddy how you feel?”

Dean moves his shoulders a fraction of an inch.

“You ever think of telling _your brother_ how you feel?”

Dean busies himself by poking at the tiny marshmallows. Watches them disintegrate into the depths of the cup.

“Boy,” Bobby starts. “You’ve got to open your mouth if you want any words to come out.”

Dean has to smile a bit at that. “I’m fine,” he lies. “Nothin’ to talk about.” He lets the conversation drop because there’s not much else to say. This isn’t therapy club, after all. 

They sit in compatible silence for a few moments longer. Dean drinking, Bobby reading, until Bobby gets up, vertebrae popping as he stands.

“Son?”

Dean looks up.

“Sam will always be your brother. Even if that means him bein’ gone for a few years.”

Dean twitches his shoulder. Keeps his gaze focused on his hot chocolate. “It's just hard, you know?”

“Life wasn’t meant to be easy, kid.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder before heading off to the other room, disappearing behind the piles of dusty books.

 

 

 

Dean finds a scale lying in the corner of Bobby’s upstairs bathroom. It’s busted and rusted and seen better days, but it seems to respond functionally to the gallon of salt he tests out. He steps on the rickety platform. Takes a breath before glancing down at the spinning dial. The needle flicks around – left to right and left again – until it settles, finally, on the insignificant marker between 200 and 205.

So that makes 35 pounds since the day he dropped Sam off at the bus station.

He doesn’t know how he should feel about this. He’s not proud but he’s also not mortified. Surprised, sure. Kind of impressed, yeah. But not swaying one way or another. He’s still him. Just… more padded over. Legs still sculpted from years of sprinting only now baby softness covers him like a second layer. The small start of a double chin, his circular belly button outlined and exaggerated by the tightness of his t-shirt, a stomach that’s turning into an actual belly – supple enough he can grab a handful.

What’s weird to him is that he doesn’t find it weird at all. He knows he looks good. Feels good too. And if he doesn’t focus too hard on the what if repercussions, everything seems pretty damn okay. Which is great for him because like it or not he’s addicted to food.

He’s lying in bed in his designated bedroom, the one he and Sam shared as kids. Ten minutes to 2 in the morning. The pattering of wet snow making plunking sounds against the roof. He’s stolen a box of cookies from the freezer and brought them upstairs – along with the rest of the cornbread and a big jug of milk. He’s eight cookies and half a gallon of milk down when his phone starts vibrating off the nightstand. Only three people in the world have his number and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one is calling.

“Yeah?” he answers. Doesn’t suppress the edge to his voice. They haven’t talked since Halloween and that seed of resentment is still lodged in his throat.

“So you _are_ still mad at me,” Sam says. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry, okay? Can we start talking again?”

Dean’s anger melts away instantly. Goddamn this kid and his ability to make his heart swell with feelings. He wasn’t even mad at Sam to begin with. Not really, anyways. “What’s up? Why’re you calling so late?” His heart starts to hammer in his chest. “You're okay, right?”

“Yeah, no,” Sam says. “I’m fine. Just can’t sleep. Figured you might be up too.”

“Well, you figured right. We’re at Uncle Bobby’s. It’s not the same without you here, taking up the whole goddamn bed and kicking me in the groin every hour of the night.” He gets the laugh he was hoping for. He rips off a hunk of cornbread. Piles on the honey before shoving it in his mouth. He palms at his chunky belly. “How’s school goin’?"

“Good. Busy.” Sam stifles a yawn. “How’re you? Still in one piece?”

Dean shoves a couple cookies in his mouth before answering. He plucks at his tee shirt where it’s bunched above his belly. “More or less,” he mumbles, crumbs spraying everywhere. “Sprained ankle and a gash on my forehead. Nothing I haven’t handled before.” He sucks some misplaced honey off his thumb with a wet pop.

“What’re you eating?”

Dean stalls. “Nothin’.”

“Liar. Every time I talk to you you’re stuffing your face full of something.”

“You got freaky bat ears I don’t know about? It’s a cookie. How the hell could you possibly hear that?”

“You chomp on your food like a freakin’ cow, Dean. Like you’re chewing a big wad of cud.”

Dean shoves in a massive handful of cookies and this time makes a point to chew as loud as possible.

He listens to Sam talk about his physics professor for the next ten minutes. Passes out somewhere between details on his semester final and something about Newton’s Law of Motion (whatever that is). He wakes up in a mess of smashed cookies when Dad pounds on his door. There’s a text message from Sam that reads:

_Ur either asleep or died of boredom. Merry Xmas Eve, idiot. Don’t overdose on eggnog._

Dean paws at his sticky chocolate-covered face and smiles. Christ, that kid.

 

  

“Care to tell me what all that was about back there?” Is what greets Dean the minute he shuts the passenger door. The ignition is barely running, it’s freezing balls outside, and he’s just started sipping from his lukewarm cup. Jesus, the last thing he wants to do at 6AM is talk. He plays the dumb card and tries to look confused.

“At dinner,” John continues, eyes glancing over. “Your attitude,” he emphasizes. “Your _weight._ ”

Dean inhales a sharp breath and holds it. Maybe if he keeps his big mouth shut he’ll come out of this conversation unscathed.

John eyes him appraisingly. “What’s goin’ on with you, huh? You’re not cursed, are you?”

“What?” Dean almost spills his coffee. “No,” he scoffs. “Why would I be cursed?”

John clenches the steering wheel with both hands. He glances back at Dean, his eyes tired. “Does this have anything to do with your brother?”

“What? No. Jesus. Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m fine, all right?” He folds his arms over the supple curve of his belly, heart rate speeding up along with his irritation. “Hell isn’t freezing over just ‘cause I put on a couple pounds. I’m not… limbless. If you’re worried about me hunting, don’t be. I’m fine.”

John’s face is the model of reserved. “I take it you don’t plan on losin’ the weight?”

Dean clutches the Styrofoam cup until his nails leave crescents. He doesn’t say anything. Though his no-answer is answer enough.

John grunts. He grips the wheel tighter. “How much have you put on since August?”

Heat creeps up the back of Dean’s neck. He scratches at the pulse point. “Thirty,” he low-balls.

John lets out a sigh, long and low. “I’m not happy about this, Dean,” he says. “Not happy about this new tone of yours either." But he drops the conversation there. Turns back, instead, to the endless stretch of highway. “We’re heading west,” he starts. “Bobby found us a case up in Cody, Wyoming,” his voice all back to business as usual. “Cedar Mountain up near the canyons. Four people reported missing in the past week.”

Dean picks up the discarded newspaper sitting near the clutch, grateful for the change in subject. “What’s our lead?” he asks, turning the paper around to check out the caption below the photo.

“Joseph Hernandez went missing last Thursday along with his fiancé. Park ranger says Hernandez called in a report about hovering lights and bodiless voices.”

“What’re we thinking?” Dean asks. He folds up the paper. “Death echoes? Sprites?”

“Both.” John gives him the faintest hint of a smile. “Ever hear of will o’ the wisps?”

Dean thinks about it for a second. He breaks into a grin. “Scottish faeries,” he chuckles. “Are you kidding me?”

John mirrors the smile. A flash of dimples identical to Sam’s. “You won’t be laughing when they claw into you with their poisonous teeth.”

Dean shakes his head. Scottish faeries. What’s next? _Elves?_

He slouches further in his seat. Flips over to the comic section and reads about Marmaduke. “Hey, Dad?” he asks after a moment. He shoulders off his (way too tight) leather jacket and lets it drop to his back. “The weight,” he says, “it won’t interfere with the job. I can handle it. I won’t let you down.”

Dad eases into the right turn lane. Checks the rearview mirror before taking the nearest exit. He gives Dean a look – warm yet indecipherable. “I know,” he says. “I’m counting on it.”

 

 

It’s nearing the end of March – spring starting to creep into the endless winter. Sam’s in the middle of spring break, off doing some home-building humanity project in the backwoods of Georgia. The geek.

Dean’s on the other side of the country enjoying everything Boomer’s Bar has to offer.

In the past weeks his love of eating has billowed into a full on food addiction. He eats for pleasure and for pain - the creamy sweetness of decadent chocolate, the jagged cramping of stuffing his gut. Before it was only about the fullness – an effort to patch up the hollowed caverns of his aching thoughts, of Sam and the loneliness that surrounded him leaving.

He still does it – stuffs himself silly until his stomach can’t take anymore. Only now it’s more about the taste. He’s completely dependent - just food, food, and more food, every spare hour, as much as he can get. So much sated pleasure in the act of eating that a double bacon cheeseburger rivals really good sex. But sex and food combined? Now that is a fucking glorious combination.

Which is why he’s using part of his 400-dollar winnings to buy high-end whiskey and a platter of nachos as he chats up the bartender with the lacy red thong. The bartender is making come hither glances at him under her thick layer of artificial lashes. And yeah, big guy or not he’s totally getting laid.

Funny, but now that he’s heavier he’s gotten better at picking up women.

Maybe it’s because he looks in need of mothering; some weird Freudian bullshit that gets him the chicks who want to feed him and stroke his hair as he comes. Or maybe it’s the extra weight making him more approachable. The sharp angles of his face smoothed to cherub-like softness, curved planes under a brush of freckles, flushed from the heat of the room. Less leather jacket, more chub. Whatever the reason, he ain’t complaining.

“Another round, sugar?” She asks as she leans forward, her bountiful breasts edging precariously out of her top. Her eyes linger on his full stomach as his eyes linger on her chest. She licks her lips as she pours him another.

Yup. He’s definitely getting laid tonight.

 

  

Dean's playing free cell on the laptop and munching through a bag of chips when he calls Sam to wish him a happy birthday. Spring this time of year in Montana is doing nothing for his allergies. God, he hates nature.

Sam picks up on the third ring and the first question out of his mouth is: _are you going to visit me for my birthday?_ Which is promptly followed by a miserable and crestfallen: _but I haven’t seen you in almost a year._

And because Dean can’t handle that level of sadness in his brother’s voice he makes a judicial decision: he’s taking a road trip to Palo Alto and Dad would just have to deal.

They decide on the first weekend of June. Sam’s staying on campus for the summer – something about work-study and extending the financial details of his scholarship. Dean doesn’t give a shit as long as they can hang out.

But as the days get closer the nerves set in. It’s not that he’s ashamed of how he looks. But Sam’s opinion counts for something.

Thanks to a stolen scale from Wal-Mart, he seems to be evening out around a hefty 220. Figures if it weren’t for the endless jobs he and Dad have taken on – running from werewolves and punching their way through corporeal spirits – he’d be even bigger. And right now he’s big enough, so much so he can’t deny the word ‘fat’ any longer.

 

 

As much as Dean hates to admit it California is pretty amazing.

Girls in bikinis? In-N-Out Burger? Get rid of the tofu loving vegan shit and he could get used to this.

He walks along the sidewalk of the kitschy student housing feeling more out of place than the time he ended up at in knitting circle at a nursing home. The sun is shining down like a goddamn super nova making his whole body sticky with sweat. The black t-shirt clings to every curve of his doughy belly and all he can think is why, why didn’t he pick out a shirt that actually fit.

But then he see’s some tall, gangly person with ridiculous hair and knows without question it’s his brother. Dean’s hands stop their self-conscious fussing because as Sam gets closer all he can focus on is how thin he’s gotten.

Sam’s taller than Dean remembers and willowy in a way that makes him nervous, like he’s a light breeze away from being knocked on his ass. Skinnier, even, than when he shot up at 13 and his whole body seemed to be made of angles and points. Sam’s oversized flannel shirt - the one that once fit them both – is hanging off of his noodle-lanky limbs in draping folds, like he’s shot up another two inches overnight and his body forgot to compensate.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says in a voice so fond. And goddamn, Dean almost loses it right there. He hauls him in, saying, “Sammy,” and Sam, after a moment, wraps his scarecrow limbs around Dean’s broad back and hugs tight.

Dean cringes at the way his belly presses into his brother’s lean frame. Height be damned, he practically swallows Sam with his size.

“Fuck, I missed you,” slips out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it and he pulls back until they’re an arms length apart.

Sam’s smile grows wider as he takes in Dean’s frame. Though his grin falters when he notices the deep gash on Dean’s cheek - nasty enough it required a few stiches and a butterfly bandage plastered up to his eye. “What happened to your face,” he asks. He tilts Dean’s head to the side; thumb prodding into the extra flesh. “And what happened to your size,” he says, voice fading to a chuckle. “Look at this,” he says with a laugh and pokes a skeletal finger into Dean’s rounded gut.

“Knock it off,” Dean says and pushes Sam’s giant paw away. He gives him the same once-over. “I could ask you the same thing. College doesn’t have a cafeteria or something? You look damn near breakable, man.”

“What? What’s wrong with me?” Sam asks and he’s looking down at himself like he’s only just noticing he has a body.

“You’re the size of my pinky finger, for starters. You’re also eight thousand feet tall and look like you haven’t had a decent meal since August.”

He figures he’s got at least 50 pounds on the kid - even without the extra four inches of height. They look like characters from a fable. Jack Sprat and his whale-like wife. One fat and the other one lean. Like Dean’s been eating enough for the two of them and then some. It’s not right. He should’ve been keeping better tabs on the kid, watching out for him despite the distance. There’s nothing but skin to shelter Sam’s bones and it’s entirely his fault.  

“Dean,” Sam says, fingers snapping under his nose. “I said I’m fine. It’s only a few pounds, maybe fifteen. Just been a stressful year, that’s all. Well, that and another growth spurt. I think I’m nearing 6’5’’. So much for not being a freak, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking unnatural, dude. First borns are supposed to be taller. Them’s the rules.”

Sam snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me,” Dean says. “Shut up. C’mere,” and pulls Sam in for another hug, his hefty body engulfing Sam’s frail frame.

 

 

 

They amble around campus for a while, Sam pointing out random buildings and rambling off facts about each one.

Sam's prattling on about steam tunnels and god knows what, “…and you can use them to get inside any buildings in the quad, even the History Corner that faces Mem Chu. Isn’t that cool?”

“Yeah,” Dean says offhandedly. “Fascinating. Listen, Pointe Dexter, how about we pause the history lesson and go grab somethin’ to eat? It’s sweltering out here, man. ”

Sam stills his next thought. “There’s a few places around here we can go. More air conditioning, less people,” he says knowingly and Dean wants to kiss his feet.

They end up at a coffee shop somewhere near the residence halls. Sam’s sipping some frothy, girly, artificial excuse for a coffee, his hair a sweaty mess, all plastered down to his head. “Does Dad know you’re here?” He asks as he leans forward, pointy elbows resting on the table.

Dean eyes him over his mug. “You’re not a leper at some compound, Sam. I can visit you. So yeah, he knows. Besides, s’not like he wouldn’t be able to figure it out.” He smiles up at the barista as she steps nearer - not just because she’s stacked and curved in all the right places - but because she comes bearing gifts: two jumbo chocolate chip muffins and an equally large blueberry with streusel topping.

He plucks the blueberry one from the platter and holds it under Sam’s nose. “Shove it in, Stretch.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but takes it anyways. He picks at the muffin as he asks about Dad, about hunting and life on the road.

Dean tells him about the will o’ the wisps in Wyoming and the crazy necromancer in Dallas that almost chopped his goddamn hand off. He shoves chunks of muffin in his mouth as he talks – manners be damned. The bits of chocolate melting over his tongue thanks to the blazing California heat. He moans around a mouthful, thankful he ordered two because he’s already done with the first and he’s not even tipped the line past famished.

“So,” Dean mumbles around his thumb, sucks off some spare chocolate and starts in on the next mammoth-sized muffin. “Co-ed bathrooms.” He wiggles his eyebrow. “Are they as great as they make ‘em out to be?”

Sam shakes his head but doesn’t divulge, just continues to tear apart his food like he’s digging for a prize.

“Would you quit pickin’ at it?” Dean kicks at his shin.

“I’m not,” Sam argues. “I just don’t like pecans.”

“Samuel, I swear to god. Eat your motherfucking muffin or I will shove it down your throat.”

Sam glares at him. "Don't call me that." 

“Hurry up,” Dean says. “I wanna head out soon. Saw a restaurant not far from here that looked good.”

"Dude." Sam stares at him unbelieving. “You just ate two muffins the size of my _head,_ Dean, and now you wanna go eat dinner? You do realize you’ve put on a lot of weight, right?”

“Really?” Dean says, as sarcastic as he can manage. “I had no idea.” He takes some of Sam’s muffin for himself. “Least I’m not in fear of blowing away in the wind.”

“I’m not _that_ thin. Besides, we can’t leave until 6. I wanted to check out this art exhibit on campus. It’s a take on the Nouveau style, like Deco but more modernist, and….” But he trails off when he realizes Dean’s staring at him like he’s speaking Swahili.

“You’re such a freak,” Dean says. “ _Nouveau style,_ ” he repeats. “Jesus. No wonder you ended up here. It’s like nerd central.”

Sam picks out a blueberry and flicks it at his face.

Dean pops it in his mouth, unperturbed.

He watches Sam eat for the next five minutes in his ridiculous, painstakingly slow way. His long, nimble fingers working through the dough like they’re moving through tar. He drums his nails on the tabletop and waits, thinks it would be faster watching a snail crawl its way across the highway. 

After a few minutes he can’t take it anymore.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he says and shoves what’s left of Sam’s muffin in his mouth. “Let’s go, Mary Kate,” he says, spraying little bits as he talks. 

 

 

 

They get seated at a booth near the window and it’s a damn tight fit: back against backing, belly against table. Sam shoots him a look of concern but Dean shakes it off. He can still fit comfortably, no need to move. Another twenty pounds and it’d be a different story. 

Sam’s looking over the flimsy plastic menu like he’s considering ordering a side salad. And yeah. That’s not happening. So Dean plucks the menu from his hand and throws it aside.

“We’re both getting the buffet,” he tells him. “And if this is a repeat of the muffin incident I will sit on your side of the booth and force-feed you like a fucking toddler.”

“Empty threats,” Sam provokes.

“Oh, you wanna bet?”

Sam folds his arms across his narrow chest and purses his lips in calculation. “Well,” he says, his eyes glinting deviously, “yes, actually.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “You wanna make a bet?” he asks incredulously. “Okay, Sammy,” voice dipping to dulcet tones. “Let’s make a deal. What’s the wager? You match me plate for plate?”

“No way,” Sam protests. “Unless you want me puking all the way home.” He thinks for a minute. “How ‘bout…. Okay, I fill your plates and you fill mine; seven plates for you, three plates for me and whoever doesn't finish loses.”

Dean considers this for a moment. “Six and three,” he throws back. “And no food is off limits. Whatever I put down you eat.”

Sam eyes him warily. “Okay. Fine. But what do I get if I win?”

“What d’ya want?”

After a moment of contemplation Sam’s grinning like the fat cat in the canary cage, and all Dean can think is oh fuck. “If I win you have to take me on a two-week road trip up the coast. No hunting. Disneyland. And I get to stop at any museum I want.”

“Jesus. What are you, five?”

“That’s what I want,” Sam says haughtily. Stubborn sonofabitch.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re so fucking demanding. Fine. Whatever.”

“And if you win?”

Dean leans back and crosses his thick arms over his belly. He purses his lips in thought. “If I win you have to spend next Christmas with me and Dad. Hunting. The full two weeks.” He leans back against the booth with a satisfied smirk.

Sam stares at him in disbelief. “No,” he says. “No way.”

“Hey,” Dean says, palms raised in submission. “It’s your call. But that’s my offer.” 

“One week,” he challenges.

“Nah-ah,” Dean shakes his head. “If I’m taking your ass to Princess land for two weeks…”

“Fine,” Sam buckles. “Fine. God. Can’t believe I’m agreeing to this but okay.”

Dean’s contemplating being overtly cruel – piling on all the shit Sam hates, like pork chops and Brussels sprouts and those little butter cookies shaped like clowns. But he’d rather the kid actually eat, so he goes easy on him and starts with the rabbit food selection at the salad bar: cantaloupe and piles of greens, a couple scoops of cold macaroni salad and a container of chocolate pudding.

He comes back to find his own plate ready to go: a heaping pile of baby back ribs and big dollops of mashed potatoes – everything swimming in needless amounts of gravy and barbeque sauce – the same cup of pudding placed to the side. “And here I thought you’d be feeding me kale,” Dean says, setting down Sam’s plate.

He starts on the ribs first, the barbeque sauce piping hot against the pads of his fingertips, steam billowing out around the bites. The meat falls off the bone like butter, the barbeque sauce sticky and sweet on his tongue. They’re fucking amazing – all fatty and tender. He looks up from his plate to find Sam actually eating – most of the salad and fruit already gone. It’s all the push Dean needs to lick the sauce from his fingers and move on to the potatoes. They’re velvety and rich with butter. He doesn’t even have to chew, just swallows them down until he’s scraping up what’s left with the tines of his fork. He gingerly makes his way through the pudding as he waits for Sam to catch up – slow pain in his ass that he is. 

“This was a horrible idea,” Sam says as he shovels in his last bite. He exhales a long, weary breath, the narrow planes of his face already looking flushed.

“Giving up?”

"No way." Sam drains the rest of his beer in one gulp and pushes up from the table without another word and Dean’s thinking he might have underestimated Sam’s resolve.

The second plate set out for Dean is piled just as high as the first. He blanches at some of the selection. “Vegetables and fruit. C'mon. Really?”

“It’s coleslaw and fruit cocktail. One is swimming in mayo and the other is swimming in corn syrup. I think you’ll live.” But then Sam glances down at his own plate with the same look of abject horror. “What is this,” he asks, poking the white glob with the tip of his fork.

“Seafood Alfredo. It's delicious. So eat up and shut up. ”

The mess of cherries and pears of the fruit cocktail isn’t as bad as he’d imagined. It’s cloyingly sweet and dripping in syrup, so Dean pounds it back as fast as he can manage, all the while pretending it’s anything but fruit. Next the coleslaw – and even that’s not so bad. Doused in mayo it doesn’t taste like much. Pretty bland all around, so Dean shovels it in without breath, getting the worst of his plate over with before hitting the good stuff.

Sam’s tactic is the opposite. He’s crunching on forkfuls of Caesar salad and bites of breaded chicken – the big glob of creamy noodles and scallops pushed to the side like it’s in the quarantine zone.

Dean plows through his second helping of mashed potatoes at warp speed, inhaling each mouthful with pleasure. He uses his spoon to scoop up the spare puddles of gravy. 

“Slow it down,” Sam says. “Last thing I wanna do is give you the Heimlich.” He's poking at the seafood Alfredo with a look of absolute disgust. He turns his eyes on Dean, all puppy-faced and frowning lips. “I _hate_ Alfredo.”

“Don’t give me that look.” Dean brandishes his fork at him. “You agreed to the rules. Eat up.” He pops a hushpuppy in his mouth as Sam begrudgingly swallows his pasta. The sweet corn-filled dough leaving grease stains on his fingertips. He wipes them off on his jeans and leans back in success. Two plates down, four to go. He scratches at his billowing sides and shimmies a bit to get the tightness of his jeans to loosen.

Sam’s picking his way through the last of his food with so much revulsion it’s almost painful to watch. The stark hollows of his cheeks round out as he slips in the last bite. He swallows it with an audible gulp and lets his fork drop to his plate with a clatter. “Shit,” he says and leans back; thin hands flush against his abdomen. “How the hell do you eat like this all the time?”

“Practice,” Dean answers. “And 'cause I'm awesome. Press down on your stomach. It helps.”

“I feel like I’m gonna hurl," Sam says and digs his boney fingers into his middle a. The roundness of his tummy looks obscene atop his slender torso. He prods at his bloated stomach, fingers pressing into the taunt stretch of skin. It takes a minute for the sweat to leave Sam’s brow but he eventually opens his eyes and leans forward – the color of his face returning to its original hue.

Dean nudges at Sam with the tip of his boot. “Go on. You can sit out this round but I still need my food. Shake a leg. Restaurant closes in a few hours.”

“Give me a minute,” Sam says irritably. He suppresses a burp against the back of his hand and lets out a dramatic moan as he gets to his feet.

When he comes back he sets down two plates: one stacked with macaroni and cheese and thick carvings of honey baked ham. The other, half a dozen incredibly large buttermilk biscuits.

“Plates three and four,” Sam says as he flops back down. He reaches into his pocket and throws a handful of butter packets to the table. “Go nuts.”

“Dude. That’s a bitch move. All that bread? All that starch is gonna expand in my stomach.”

“You can handle it,” Sam says and Dean doesn’t know if he’s being condescending or hopeful. Right now he just looks ill – head pillowed on his arms and stretched out across the table like an oversized ragdoll. After only two plates of food it’s actually kind of pathetic.

“You’re a sad excuse for a Winchester,” he tells him but Sam can’t even conjure enough effort to roll his eyes.

Three plates in and Dean is starting to feel it, the copious amounts of food sloshing around in his belly. All those potatoes. All that gravy. The beer and the ribs and the pudding and the muffin. He’s full but not stuffed. The difference being that he can work his way through the ham and macaroni and cheese without an overwhelming amount of struggle. It’s the biscuits that are a bitch. They might as well be hockey pucks they’re so fucking dense. Even his temples hurt from chewing.

There’s more than enough trans fat on the greasy rolls to last him a lifetime but he slathers on more butter. The slickness of the added margarine making them easier to choke down.

"Smallest fucking butter packets in the world,” Dean complains. His pudgy fingers not nimble enough to lift the stupid side flap of the wrapper. “Tiny Tim sized, seriously.” He unwraps an extra packet and pops the pad of butter in his mouth experimentally. And okay, that was a bad idea because now he just wants to eat the butter. Sweet cream and the hint of salt. He moans around the melting fat. 

Sam is still sprawled out across the table, watching Dean with half-lidded eyes.“ You know, they should really make people pay by the hour instead of per person,” he babbles. “They’d make a killing off of people like you. Especially now that you’ve gotten so –“

“Hey, now,” Dean shoots him a look.

“Ample.” Sam dimples.

“Ample? You make me sound like a tugboat.”

“Not far off, really.”

Dean rips off a hunk of biscuit and catapults it at Sam’s face. He smirks when it smacks him between the eyes, exploding in his bangs in a mess of crumbs. Lanky bastard.

The plate of bread is proving to be too much, even for his iron stomach. He gets through four of the six biscuits when his stomach puts up a wall; an act of protest from his gut telling him to slow the fuck down. He’s at a dead stop.

The spasms start when the starch settles in and this is the point where he’d usually lie down on his back and work his hands over his body. But since they’re in a cramped booth he does what he can and pivots to the side, relieving the pressure of having his pudgy belly pressed into the edge of the table.

He belches. “Gotta undo my pants.” He ignores Sam’s indignant protest and pries open the straining button of his jeans and oh god that feels good. The thick weight of his belly rolling forward over the length of his fly. He sucks in a greedy breath of air causing the exaggerated curve of his gut to become even more pronounced. He doesn’t really care that his shirt has ridden up to settle above the rolls on his sides. He places both hands on the bulk of his belly and works his fingers in slow circles.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks.

Dean peaks open an eye. “What does it look like I’m doing, genius? I’m relieving the pain.”

“Is this you claiming defeat?”

“It’s me taking a break. Goddamn biscuits from Hell.”

Sam’s head is still cradled on his arm. “Can’t be worse than the seafood Alfredo.”

Dean doesn’t acknowledge that with a response. He keeps his hands on his belly and digs his knuckles into the more stubborn knots.

But twenty minutes later neither of them have moved an inch. They’re both under the grips of their food comas, stuffed and sated. Too tired to do anything but sit there and work at the cramps in their bellies.

Sam finally sits up. Says, “Can we call truce?” He twists to the side to pop his spine, his small excuse for a tummy still swollen beneath his layers of clothes.

Dean winces at a particularly sharp cramp that vibrates up his back. He presses the heel of his hand further into his stomach. There’s no way either of them are winning the battle against another plate. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Truce.” He leans his head back against the wall and sighs. He wishes they were already back in Sam’s dorm. A room with a bed is all he needs right now.

Sam looks like he’s on the same train of thought; face slumped in his hands, a yawn on his lips. “What do you wanna do tomorrow? You know, apart from never coming to a buffet ever again.”

“Well." He throws down his napkin. "We could always go up to Anaheim.”

“Wait," Sam says. "Seriously? You’re seriously gonna take me to Disneyland?”

Dean shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hadn’t been planning on taking him the moment Sam told him that’s what he wanted. “Might be fun. But no damn Mickey hats,” he says, and Sam’s grinning so wide it looks like he’s going to break something.

Dean's trying to work off whatever sauce is still stuck on his thumb - barbecue most likely - when he notices Sam staring at him from across the table. “What?” he asks defensively. “I know I’m a handsome devil, but,” he trails off.

“Nothing.” Sam smiles. “Just, you,” he says. “Something’s different. Ever since you got here. You seem… happy.”

“I’m always happy.”

“Not like this.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that so he scratches at his neck, fusses with the too-short hair in the back.

Sam gives him a light kick under the table. Flashes his dimples. “I’m glad," he says. "You deserve it.”

And Dean thinks yeah, maybe Sam's right. Maybe he is. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
